In his rage, he would probably have shot the man dead. But a noise from the corridor turned his attention in that direction. He turned to face a wicked-looking rascal who was covering him with another revolver.
It was Solinski, Motkin’s second henchman.
“You— you—”
Waddell spluttered as he recognized the man’s face. The gun he had aimed at the first of Motkin’s henchmen now turned itself against this second intruder.
But Waddell’s aim was bad. He missed.
Before the millionaire could try another shot, his enemy fired directly at Waddell. The man dropped his gun. His body slumped.
THE sound of the first shot had penetrated to Betty’s stateroom. Her attention aroused by the first struggle, she was at the door and stepping through as her father sank to the floor.
She was fully dressed, prepared for her early-morning promenade. With an exclamation of horror on her lips, she instinctively closed the door behind her.
Solinski paused, training the revolver upon Betty Waddell. But he hesitated, for the girl’s bravery awed him. It was Baldridge, wild and snarling, who spoke first.
“Get away from that door!” he ordered. “Get away! We are going to enter.”
The man was upon the point of firing, when Solinski leaped forward and gripped the girl with his free hand. He tried to drag her away from the door.
Betty, with wild determination, fought back. Solinski flung her to the floor. Before she could rise from her knees, Baldridge gripped her shoulders.
Solinski paused with his hand upon the knob of the inner room. With cruel eyes he watched his companion fighting to hold the struggling girl. Coolly, Solinski aimed his revolver directly at the girl’s breast.
A shot rang out from the outer door. Solinski’s arm fell. His grip upon the doorknob loosened. He swayed and slumped to the floor. Baldridge, staring in the direction of the shot, saw a weird figure in black.
An avenging form, The Shadow towered above the dead body of Tobias Waddell. His prompt arrival had saved the girl’s life.
Baldridge remained to be reckoned with, and this man was not idle. With a furious oath, he sprang to his feet and turned to shoot the intruder.
The Shadow’s second shot was the response. Like Solinski, Baldridge collapsed. Motkin’s two henchmen were foiled in their plan for murder.
For a moment, The Shadow waited; then he turned to the corridor. Sounds were coming from that direction.
The Shadow paused no longer. He stepped swiftly from the room to meet Ivan Motkin and three ruffians who were coming to join the attackers.
Only Motkin recognized the danger. He and his crowd had heard the shots and had believed that their companions had slain both the millionaire and the girl. Now, with The Shadow stepping into view, these new invaders were caught before they realized it.
The Shadow’s gun barked sharply. Each burst of flame delivered a well-aimed bullet. Only one man managed to fire in return. His shot rang out as he was staggering. His gun was pointing harmlessly above The Shadow’s head.
Motkin alone escaped. Scurrying for cover, he was momentarily protected by the falling men in front. He gained the turn in the corridor and fled. The Shadow started in pursuit. Reaching the turn, he saw that the way was blocked between himself and Motkin. Stewards and passengers were appearing.
They caught only a fleeting glimpse of a black-clad form as The Shadow wheeled and disappeared along another passage.
CHAPTER XIX. THE MAN WHO KNEW
OUT on the promenade deck, David Tholbin was standing with three men. Two bore uniforms of stewards. The other was a passenger aboard the ship.
Close by the door of Stateroom 7-D, Tholbin held up a warning hand. His sallow face paled as he heard a fusillade of muffled shots from the other side of the barrier.
For a moment, the young man seemed incapable of action. Then sharp words came from the men who crouched beside him. Nodding, Tholbin pressed a key into the lock and turned it. The door opened inward into a darkened room.
Tholbin’s companions surged eagerly forward. They shoved the young man ahead of them into the cabin.
They pounced upon a large trunk that stood in the nearest corner of the room.
Struggling, they jammed the big object through the doorway, scraping the edges of the woodwork. On deck, their burden seemed to lighten. With one accord, they staggered to the rail and pitched the trunk over the side!
The falling container splashed into the waters below. One man, standing by the rail, saw it shimmer as it bobbed upon the surface.
The strange action had been witnessed by only one person other than those who had accomplished it. A crouching man, coming from a passage door, was there to see. One of the false stewards spied him and uttered a sharp cry.
The others turned. With one accord, they bounded toward this unexpected witness, determined to stop him before he could escape.
Their attack was short-lived. Their adversary opened fire. Two of the attackers fell. The other dropped to the deck and returned the fire. The spurt of his revolver showed his position. Ruthlessly, the man at the passage door shot him dead.
The killer scurried along the deck and dived into another passage. Descending a stairway, he reached the door of a cabin and opened it. He locked the door behind him and dropped, panting, into a chair.
It was Ivan Motkin. Fleeing from The Shadow, he had encountered the men allied with David Tholbin. A paradox of cowardice and bravery, Motkin, who had fled from the terrible presence of The Shadow, had not hesitated to fire at these others. He was safe, through miraculous luck, but his henchmen had been eliminated to the last man.
BACK in Betty Waddell’s cabin, David Tholbin was crouching in a panic. He had heard shots in the other stateroom; he had heard shots on the deck. Here, he was safe, between two fires. Revolver in hand, he did not know which way to turn.
The door of the outer cabin burst open. Tholbin, terror-stricken, thought that the end had come. Leaping to his feet, he fired wildly. Two men dropped back as his shots spattered the door.
Escape! There was only one way now. Wildly, Tholbin sought the door that led to the deck. His hand faltered as he tried to find the knob. At last he managed to yank the door open.
His form showed plainly in the light of breaking day. Shots came from the door of the inner cabin. David Tholbin lurched forward, staggered across the deck, and fell against the rail. He sprawled crazily on the deck, shot in the back.
Two men hurried to where his body lay. They wore the uniforms of ship’s officers. They had tried to stay this fleeing man, after he had fired at them. Their bullets had found the mark. David Tholbin was dead.
Consternation reigned on the Gasconne. Hundreds of passengers had been aroused. Officers were in charge. A hasty investigation was being made.
As daylight increased, squads of men searched the ship, looking for those who had participated in the fray.
A few of the victims remained alive. Two of Motkin’s men were wounded, but not dead. They were obdurate, and refused to talk. One of the false stewards still lived. He gave an alibi and it worked. He said that he had been shot down by a man entering the outer door of Cabin 7-D. That placed the blame on David Tholbin.
Betty Waddell could furnish no clews. She told her story from the beginning. She had heard a shot; had come to see her father lying dead. She spoke in praise of a strange man clad in black, who had saved her from death.
The one clew was an absent one. An oddly shaped trunk was missing from Betty Waddell’s cabin. But she did not know of the loss. Hysterical after her terrible ordeal, she was placed in the doctor’s care, and did not return to Cabin 7-D.
The quizzing of the passengers revealed nothing. By the time the questioners had come to Ivan Motkin, who took his turn along with the rest, the suave Russian had regained his composure. He knew nothing.